


Desperate

by randomalia (spilinski)



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Pining, Rejection, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4629525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilinski/pseuds/randomalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'One of these days, you may come knocking.’</p><p>‘I would need to be desperate,’ Ross replies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate

**Author's Note:**

> A little ficlet set during 1x02 at the Assembly.

The annual ball at the Assembly Rooms is generally a dull affair, though George has found he learns more about his clients and their friends at a ball than at any number of meetings. People are excited by the crowds and the wine and the flirtations, and so they drop their guard and, often, great sums of money at the card tables. It is all to be expected.

Tonight, however, promises to be different. Ross Poldark has returned, and George feels certain he won't stay away.

He spends an hour and a small sum of money playing at whist before he catches sight of Ross, alone and dressed in a coat almost as dark as his wild hair. When George looks at him the rest of the ball recedes into the background.

'Not dancing, Ross?' he hears himself say. 'Will none of the ladies have you?'

A low laugh rumbles in Ross' chest, but he isn't looking at George.

'The whiff of soil is hard to swill off,' George persists, 'but if one communes with peasants --'

'Do you prescribe perfume?' Ross says, looking at him briefly. George feels that glance all the way to his backbone.

'It covers a multitude of sins,' he says, following as Ross makes his way directly from the room.

'Like money.'

'Indeed,' says George. Yes. Of course. That is, after all, the reason George is invited to these balls, the type of society gathering at which his forebears would never have been welcome. It is the reason why old families like the Poldarks disdain him still. Money is the thing that defines them now. 'For how else could a family of blacksmiths become bankers? One of these days, you may come knocking.’

It is George who holds the whip-hand now, and Ross would do well to acknowledge it.

‘I would need to be desperate,’ Ross replies.

George’s lips press together. _But you did_ , he wants to say. _You were._   But Ross is smirking, as though the thought of coming to George for anything is absurd, and a sudden memory burns through him: the dark hallway at school, a stolen taper casting shadows. Ross at his door at midnight.

'I look forward to the prospect,' he replies. He is pleased that his smile does not waver as he takes his leave.

Ross is always like this, he reminds himself sharply, making his way through the stuffy rooms. Always doing his best to make enemies when he could so easily be making friends. Always trying so hard to be unpredictable, to make himself stand out amongst the civilised crowd. He is like a child who will not play and so draws all attention to himself.

George has known for a long time that Ross desires attention. But it is more than that, isn't it? Ross desires what he can’t have and shuns what he can, what he _should_ have.

A petty rebellion against the expectations of society. George wonders at his foolishness, truly.

He nods to acquaintances with practiced smiles and makes small talk over the swell and sway of the music, eventually finding Francis. They take up glasses of wine together and watch as the next dance begins. In the midst of finely-tailored coats and glimmering skirts, Ross and Elizabeth capture everyone's attention. They are beautiful as they turn and twist down the line with eyes only for each other, their hands meeting and parting and meeting again.

 _I would need to be desperate_ , George thinks.

The wine is heavy and full on his tongue. The yellow candlelight is everywhere; it slides over the broad line of Ross’ shoulders as he dances. Even now he looks contemptuous. Even now he is arrogant, reckless.

George swallows harshly against the pressure in his throat. The ripe taste of the wine lingers.

 

*

 

_It was Autumn and the ground was strewn with leaves of red and gold and amber. They crackled under George’s back as Ross laid him down on the earth._

_He remembers the high cold air and the warmth of their naked bodies touching. Holding tight to Ross’ shoulders and looking up at him amongst the stars, as an acolyte might raise his eyes to look at God. Ross’ mouth had been soft on his (and warm, so warm and wanting) and that was perhaps the most shocking thing of all._

_It was perfect, George thought, as Ross moved against him, breathy moans tumbling from his long throat. Ross always did and said what he liked and here in the darkness he made sounds as though no one could hear them, and dug strong fingers into George’s hair and kissed and kissed and kissed him, and it was almost unbearable, the way he made George feel.  
_

_Later on the slow walk back to the school with the moon lighting the way their shoulders touched almost like friends. Leaves broke underfoot and George was warm and shocked and he felt like a king, like a martyr; he laughed aloud and watched his white breath dissipate into darkness._

_He was young and unafraid, and Ross Poldark wanted him.  
_

_It was everything._


End file.
